


Rising Like the Smoke, You Linger on Me

by oneforyourfire



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Frottage, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-06
Updated: 2017-01-06
Packaged: 2018-09-15 06:52:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9223889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneforyourfire/pseuds/oneforyourfire
Summary: Jongin smells like he's loved and protected andwanted, and he is—just not the way he wants to be in his weaker, more pathetic moments.





	

**Author's Note:**

> this came out a bit angstier than expected (jongin is too soft), but i hope you like it nonetheless

This sweater, it’s Jongin’s favorite. Dark gray, rumpled and soft with age, warm from use, it’s drenched as expected, as _requested_ , with Sehun’s heavy, heavy pheromones—just how Jongin likes it.

There’s a faint stain on one of the sleeves, highlighter green, and Jongin thumbs at it as he tugs the sweater over his head. Sehun’s shoulders are broader than his, his chest wider, and the excess fabric bunches around Jongin's shoulders and back. And he likes that, too. Likes how it makes him feel small, feel safe, feel like an Omega, a pretty, claimed, soft, small, small Omega—if only for a moment.

Sehun's scent is musky and spicy and heavy and warm, envelops him completely, and Jongin nuzzles as he always does against the thick reassurance of it, inhaling deep, exhaling slow. He wants it—wants him to saturate every pore.

This isn’t unheard of. Because Alphas are possessive, entitled lot, will often respect another Alpha’s claim over an Omega’s insistence that they don’t want to be claimed

And Jongin had used his Joonmyun hyung, before then his father. It’s normal to request it—scenting. Even if it’s acutely different with Sehun, makes Jongin feel cradled and cared for and cherished. Not like a child, not like a friend, but like a lover.

There’s a precedent for this, Jongin rationalizes, even as he curls forward to inhale the comforting warmth and security of Sehun’s scent. It’s commonplace and understood and even encouraged, and Jongin smells like he's loved and protected and _wanted_ , and he is—just not the way he wants to be in his weaker, more pathetic moments.

This isn’t one of those moments. Jongin won’t let it be, efficient and singular as he tugs on his own coat, his scarf, his gloves, braves the winter chill for his snack food cravings.

Jongin’s big enough to defend himself, strong enough, too. Isn’t usually read as an Omega at first glance, at least not until people get close enough to smell it on him. And even then, he has Sehun’s scent, the protection of Sehun’s false possession as a last resort.

He’s safer, in that way.

It’s scarier—riskier mostly in quiet, poorly-lit areas, in places where groups of alphas congregate with the intention of proving something to themselves or to each other, gathering near alleys, convenience stores, old apartment buildings, bare fingers trembling around their cigarettes, glowing bottles of soju.

Jongin passes a handful as he shoves his gloved hands in his pockets and strides into the convenience store.

Sehun had just barely brought his over an hour before, peeling it off to tug on another after they’d lain side by side on Jongin’s rug to study, and it’s still so dizzyingly potent, Jongin’s feelings, too.

He grabs three samjak kimbaps—tuna mayo, spicy chicken, spam and egg—one carton of banana milk, another of melon milk for Wonshik, string cheese, pays with his Metro Card before hurrying back home.

Jongin doesn’t want to call it love—what he feels for Sehun, what he’s felt for Sehun for going on three years at this point, doesn’t want to be so cliched and heavy and helpless and foolish and reckless with stupid, one-sided _love_. He wants more of himself, he thinks, more than the idiotic tragedy of an Omega helplessly devoted to an Alpha that doesn’t want him back. Jongin isn’t _in love_ , but he's at least _infatuated_. And it's long-lasting and unwavering and breathlessly, distressingly powerful.

But it’s a Monday night, and Jongin only lets himself dwell on the stupid, devastating _gravity_ of unrequited feelings— _not_ love—for another 5 minutes before fumbling for the heavy hardcover books stacked high on his tiny desk.

He has course readings to do, book club reading, too, a lab report to draft.

Jongin reads splayed on his bed, head propped on one elbow, pink highlighter caught between his teeth.

 

At his book club meeting the next night, settled on one of the hard, pencil-tattooed wooden desks in the Liberal Arts building, Jongin drags his fingers absently along the cover, thumbnail catching over the embossed surface of the name García as fellow member Namjoon talks about the symbolism—the poetry—of tying a raving man to a tree. Jongin has the same pink highlighter now, tapping absently now against his hip. He nods along or makes sounds of disagreement but seldom contributes.

Jongin’s tired when he gets home.

And he only allows himself 20 minutes of shameful cradling and before he’s back to real life, watching three episodes of Mind of Chef with Wonshik—for bonding—reading more, studying more, messaging Sehun to remind him about Chanyeol’s show on Thursday, then sorting his laundry for the next day, falling into his bed, curling around the steady comfort of Sehun’s false, false claim.

He wakes up early on Wednesday, picks up a double shift at the barbecue restaurant, sprints to his afternoon Literature lecture, has lunch in the park, cross-legged on a tiny, hard bench with aluminum foil on his lap to catch any excess kimbap pieces. He gets home just as the sun is fading, follows a basket-laden Wonshik into the laundry room downstairs with their old kimchi jar full of coins.

Jongin puts his favorite Sehun sweater to wash, wears another one, just as scent-drenched, just as soft, but much less loose, a burgandy vneck with sleeves that fall just barely past his fingertips.

Propped on one of the rickety tables near the driers, Wonshik helps Jongin separate his socks as he waits for his own laundry to finish. Done, fingers unoccupied, legs restless, he agonizes briefly over messaging Hongbin—the gorgeous gorgeous Beta that he’s been pining over for months.

They’re in the same Humanities class, and he's asking if they should meet up for coffee then study afterwards. And Wonshik is confirming that _yes, it’s a date ;)_.

Jongin has to press send for him, and Wonshik is so grateful that he stays to help him fold all his laundry, fingers jittery, smile dopey. He stops occasionally to sigh dreamily, touch his face, check his phone.

They settle on Friday, and Jongin doesn’t mention it when Wonshik collapses on their couch, buries his face in their decorative pillow, and screams.

Thursdays for Jongin are class free, job free, school responsibility free, too, dedicated to the dogs at the shelter five stops away on the subway.

Jongin’s the absolute _best_ at socializing them, the ahjumma praises every time he visits. And he gets paid in puppy kisses and free cookies to walk, pet, chase the dogs around the fenced area. It’s, Sehun incidents excluded, his favorite part of the week.

The smallest is called Jjajang, the sweetest, most precious angel that Jongin has ever encountered, and he gnaws on Jongin’s finger, tail thumping against his leg, alternately the ground as he collapses over himself fetching his worn soft cloth ball.

It heals his soul.

Jongin tugs his mittens on his hands as he braves the chilly walk home afterwards. Sehun’s scent is lingering, haunting, stronger than the weak traces of stale cigarette smoke, barbecue grease, dog. Jongin nuzzles into it as he climbs the steep stairs to his apartment, collapses into bed.

Sehun’s scent on his skin is still strong, strong enough, and Jongin peels Sehun’s sweater to toss it on the bed.

He tugs his pants and boxers off, too, balances his laptop on his bare legs.

On screen, a desperate, small, small small Omega crawls into his Alpha’s lap, rides himself ragged, hiccuping as he comes, and Jongin rocks back onto his curled fingers, into the fist squeezed around his cock, only imagining someone else’s fingers, someone’s else’s cock when he’s too dazed with pleasure to resist it.

Sehun, he doesn’t have some of that ugly entitlement of other Alphas, isn’t competitive or possessive or egotistical or domineering, isn’t the kind of Alpha that _scares_ Jongin, but there’s a quiet understated sort of assurance and authority to him, something firm and confident in the breadth of his shoulders, the set of his jaw. He's an Alpha, looks it, feels it, smells it, would probably taste it, too, if Jongin’s more secret, shameful desires ever came to fruition.

But they’re half-formed even now, too shameful to be barefaced in their utter need.

And Jongin’s gotten pretty good at compartmentalizing, he likes to think, as he wipes his stomach and chest with the tissues on his dresser drawer, stumbles into the bathroom after tugging his pants on, washes his hands, splashes cool water on his face.

They hold open mic at a local, cramped, cramped coffee shop, and Jongin presses his nose into the collar of his sweater—his own sweater this time—as he waits, filtering out the sticky, sweet warmth of coffee, the harsh, pungent mix of different status pheromones, Jongin inhaling instead the warmth of his own fabric softener.

He somehow always manages to be first, and the silence and emptiness of it always unnerves him, makes him feel painfully, painfully alone.

A girl, a pretty Alpha with long black hair, blood red lips smiles at him as he leg jitters beneath the table, and he wonders if it's pity, wonder if she knows, wonders if everyone does, burrows further into the collar of his own sweater—unclaimed, unbound, _unwanted_.

He taps his fingers nervously against the varnished wood as he waits, swaying subtly to the soft ambient music, acoustic, first a mousy brunet, then a pretty blonde, then a rainbow-haired duo.

Kyungsoo and Jongdae join him as the boy and girl leave the stage. Joonmyun a performance later. And Sehun plops down beside him two songs later, sharp elbows, and sharp chin and long limbs and painfully potent scent crashing against him as he attempts to right himself. He's tired and flushed from the cold but still too handsome to bear. And Jongin wasn’t prepared, not enough. And in a brief moment of overcompensation, Jongin overcorrects, jerks back at the fleeting brush of fabric on fabric on skin, putting too much awful distance between them. But he catches himself and fixes it in time, smiling widely as Sehun squeezes in beside him.

He’s there to see Chanyeol, too. Cheers him on when Chanyeol takes the stage, louder yet when he races back to their table, face flushed and eyes bright and smile jittery.

They make room for him, too, and Jongin leans into Kyungsoo, who offers him a sip of his grapefruit ade, ruffles his hair in that soft, quiet, unassuming, understated comforting way he does everything. An Alpha, too, a stronger Alpha yet, he steadies him as Sehun shuffles on his other side, Jongdae comments on the performances, Joonmyun taps mindless tattoos against the table, Chanyeol smiles shyly into his drink.

They watch the other performances, and Kyungsoo, his absolute _favorite_ hyung as Jongin often reminds him, buys Jongin hotteok from one of the street vending stalls nearby, sending him off with another strained hair ruffle, a soft, quiet smile.

Fridays, they're for heavy, heavy class schedules, a heavy, heavy backpack, rushed breakfasts, skipped lunches, breathless races across campus.

But Fridays, they’re also for Sehun, for yearning, ostensibly for studying, usually over Costco tortilla chips or cheeseballs.

Sehun gives up an hour and a half in, collapsing bodily onto his textbook with a low, long-suffering groan, long, lean limbs starfishing out to knock over Jongin’s highlighter and pens.

Jongin squawks in undignified indignation and whacks him into being upright once more.

Sehun’s brows are knit and his lips jut out in a pout and he’s beautiful. Briefly transfixed, Jongin tries not to think about how it’d be so, so fucking nice to taste that pout, coax it completely free with his lips, his tongue.

Jongin hits Sehun again—for being so lazy, and his hand is warm and tingly when he pulls it away. Face hot, body hotter, he focuses on the highlighted portions of his notes

But study sessions always end with Sehun and Jongin intertwined, minimal coaxing on Sehun’s part to convince Jongin to abandon his work, come watch inane shit on TV with him.

And this could be classified as strictly scenting, too, a strictly pragmatic use of Sehun’s status as an Alpha, but Jongin has never mentioned it even under the pretense, never attempted to rationalize away this small, sacred pleasure. This is too pure, too perfect for the stain of that lie.

And it’s so nice to be held, was nice even before Jongin started having these strange feelings, started hurting for them. Sehun’s nose grazes the nape of his neck, breath warm, steady and steadying as his arms wrap around Jongin’s middle, and it makes Jongin feel painully, beautifully alive with want.

“Relax,” Sehun tells him, murmuring in approval as the man on screen blows glass into a delicate horse. “The homework will still be there when we finish this episode.”

And Jongin forces himself lax, wills his pulse calm, his breathing even.

It is still there—their homework—but they don’t bother trying to complete it, don't bother leaving the couch even when one episode becomes two, becomes three, becomes four. 

Lolled into a languid, languid stupor, Jongin instead dozes as the television screen drones on.

Sehun is gone when he awakens hours later, body twisted into a painful position, but covered in a blanket. _Sehun_ , Jongin thinks and feels stupidly warm all over, lumbering back into his own room.

The next morning, smelling Sehun still, along his own shoulder, collarbone, wrist, Jongin check his heat schedule app. His heats have been inconsistent for several months, the stress of college he thinks, his poor diet, poorer sleeping schedule. But the little thermometer emoji predicts that it’s maybe 7 days away.

He’ll have to pick up forms after class, email his professors, ask his other friends in class for notes.

Stirring another spoonful of creamer into his coffee, he harangues himself for forgetting to ask Sehun for another sweater.

Bundled in entirely his own clothes, he picks up another shift at the barbecue restaurant. Still dressed in his work pants, work shirt, smelling still of barbecue grease, fried meat, soju afterwards, he boards the subway. He naps on the Circle Line train that afternoon, only rouses and stands up when an old lady tottles inside. Resting his head against his elbow, Jongin lets the steady, comforting thrum of the gentle start and stop of the train lull him into stupor. It helps him think, maybe even helps him cope, and he feels better by the time he disembarks.

He nuzzles into his pillowcase when he collapses into his bed that night, after an indulgent dinner, even more indulgent shower, and his bed smells like his own shampoo and body wash, like Beat detergent and lavender fabric softener, and the sweet traces of his own pheromones, smells like the bed of an unclaimed Omega.

And it's equal parts greed and pragmatism that has him picking up his phone.

come over tomorrow, he sends.

okay :P, Sehun responds.

They agree for 1PM, after Jongin goes grocery shopping, before Jongdae’s mandated weekly vintage video game gathering.

Jongin's chest constricts, and he stares up at the stuccoed ceiling of his room, willing his body lax, his pulse calm, his heart less excitable. But Sehun is so often Jongin’s favorite indulgence.

 

Backpacks stuffed with tote bags way too fucking early the next morning, Wonshik and Jongin ride the bus to their nearest hypermarket, then weave through all the aisles, Wonshik crossing things off with the click pen dangling from the strings of his hoodie.

Fruits and vegetables—bananas, oranges, tomatoes, spinach, and lettuce—to placate his mother, milk, cheese, yogurt, instant oatmeal, cereal, a big pack of ramen—the multi flavored one that has spicy _and_ seafood. They also spend some time looking at pajama pants, humidifier, shoes, but decide against those _luxuries_

As they pay for their groceries, straightening their wrinkled green bills, Wonshik’s phone beeps. His entire faces crinkles with the shyest, mos vulnerable smile, and Jongin’s own heart aches with pride and only the vaguest, smallest, smallest pang of jealousy.

But Sehun joins them that afternoon, after they’ve returned home, put all their food away. Sehun drags Wonshik and Jongin onto their beat up couch, winding around them both as only someone with incongruously long, lithe limbs really can.

They watch three episodes of Mind Over Chef before Jongdae is texting him, and Sehun is insisting on holding gloved hands on the way there.

They crowd on Jongdae’s rug, around Jongdae’s dusty Gamecube, and it’s a tournament. Loser buys pizza, drinks.

Jongin, try as he might, he keeps losing.

His Mario and Luigi gets hit by a boulder—the third time in a row as Minseok’s Diddy and Donkey Kong races to the finish, and Jongdae drops his controller, laughs, braying and loud before tugging Jongin into his arms. His chest rumbles with ringing laughter, and the controller in his hand digs uncomfortably into Jongin’s belly. But he just squeezes tighter until Jongin goes completely lax in admitted defeat. “It's okay,” he croons in a lilting sing-song, koala-clinging when Jongin makes to pull away. Now pay up, baby boy.”

Jongin does, and Sehun smiles at him over his steaming slice, eyes crinkling.

Because he paid, Jongdae lets him take an extra box home, and Sehun walks him to the intersection, broad and falsely possessive. Jongin likes it, allows himself to like it, the showmanship of a public claim, doesn't harangue himself for it until he's alone in his own bed, smelling only himself, remembering the utter stupidity of this persistent infatuation.

His heat hits sooner, harder than he’s expecting, a Monday night, an impromptu study session with Sehun at Jongin’s kitchen table, as Sehun kicks him beneath the table. A prickle of heat shudders through his limbs, skitters through his veins.

Mild still but obvious, something painfully intentional in the way his body pulsates, a bruise of desire.

Jongin stiffens with the realization, fingers tightening around the Krispy Kreme donut that Sehun had bribed him with to just _explain_ the symbolism in this novel. The sugar is tacky and sticky against his palm and fingers as he squeezes it tight, tight, tight.

 _Fuck fuck fuck_. 

Sehun stiffens, too, kicks him again in the process, and the grazing touch, it's too much. Jongin jerks away, as Sehun inhales sharply.

Oh no. No, no, _no_.

Humiliation burns hot in his throat, even as arousal simmers low in his belly.

Sehun swallows, and his lips part with the motion.

And he knows. Oh fuck, he knows.

“You never,” Sehun starts, stops, swallows. His eyes are dark, eyelashes heavy. And Jongin hates the way his body pulsates in response, hates hates hates that Sehun might be able to smell it on him. “I mean that I’ve never seen you—” His voice is rough, and he swallows again. Heavy again. There’s a faint tremble in his hands as he motions vaguely.

Never asked anyone, he means. Never gone it with another person, he means.

A flicker of hope shivers through Jongin’s limbs, painful and fragile and ugly and misplaced because Sehun doesn't mean it that way. Not the way that Jongin wants it to.

But oh God, even just the thought of it—Sehun, his mouth, his fingers, his cock, his knot taking taking taking until Jongin’s boneless and mindless and useless with pleasure—just the thought has Jongin's limbs locking, has Jongin's fingers fisting, tighter, tighter, tighter around that ruined donut. Blood and slick and debilitating desire course downwards, a rush of heat and wetness and dizzying want. He reeks with his arousal already, can feel it pooling and gushing forth from every pore, sticky and heated and pathetically needy.

_Take me, Alpha. Take me. Take me. Take_

And for the first time since he was a scared, confused teenager, Jongin hates himself for being an Omega, hates Sehun too for reminding him that he’s an Omega, for making him hate this part of himself, too.

Sehun inhales, exhales slow, shuddery. His fingers also curl into fists. His head jerks in the general direction of Jongin’s room, and he motions again, but less vague. A cylinder, bulbed at the base. His knot or Jongin’s knot simulator, and Jongin is humiliated. And indignant. And so fucking _scared_. “You always—you’ve never. You don’t—?”

And there’s a question there. An answer, too. The wrong one. The worst possible one. Because Jongin isn’t gonna ask Sehun to help, knows himself, loves himself too much to bleed in that way. He knows that he can’t separate feelings from acts, at least not when it comes to Sehun. He _can’t_. It'd _break_ him.

“No,” Jongin manages, and Sehun’s lips part again, the movement tense, jerky, somehow still beautiful. “I haven’t, and I won’t.” Sehun's breathing is ragged, his throat and ears flushing, his eyes dark and glazed. He reeks, too. Can blame it on the hormones, too, how thick and stifling and disgustingly overwhelming they feel.

Jongin’s dizzy on them—on _him_ , and Sehun needs to _leave_.

“Call Wonshik for me,” he says, and Sehun shudders into motion. He is so, so stiff when he rises, shoulders squared, jaw set, fingers clenched into tight, tight fists. He jerks a nod in Jongin’s direction.

Jongin’s entire body aches for him. He rises shakily, too, lip catching between his teeth as Sehun’s knuckles go white from the force his grip on his chair.

“Are you sure—?” He licks his lips again, and Jongin’s knees tremble. “Are you sure you can—? That you don't need me to—”

Anger coils with the arousal, with the half-formed fear, with the long familiar pain. Because Jongin’s done this without him—has done this so fucking _long_. It’s stupid to think he can’t handle it. He’s done this so many times—all without him. And it wouldn’t _mean_ the same thing to him, doesn’t mean the same thing to him. And this about self-preservation. And Sehun, he has no fucking _right_.

“Just leave, Sehun,” he insists. “Call Wonshik. “

Sehun does.

Jongin strips naked and collapses on his bed, and he does it alone. As he’s done. As he will do. As he knows how.

Head throw back, fingers between his legs, knot simulator shoved as he can manage, Jongin handles it, doesn’t cry because it isn’t something to cry over, isn’t something stupid like being in love with your best friend.

It hurts. It burns. It tears him open. And he’s too caught up with need to worry about stupid cliches and stupid feelings and the stupid pangs of a heart that still _yearns_ in spite of itself.

There's a certain relief in the awfulness of it, the singular _need_ that eclipses all else, breaks him down into his rawest, basest, neediest, most animal parts.

And Wonshik, he’s there for him. There for him in the way that Jongin needs. Because nobody understands—really understands—like an Omega, and Wonshik soothes him through the numerous, quaking comedowns. He feeds him, wipes his face, forces him to bathe between the fevers, and he’s the low timbre of tender whispers, the cool press of fingers to his forehead, his cheekbone, the reminder that he’s okay, he can do this, he’s okay, Wonshik is here.

And Jongin only needs three nights, two days, one refresh of his AAA batteries to break it.

Weak and fragile and broken, he stutters and shivers through the last painful, painful hiccup of receding heat, twisting back into his rumpled sheets with an exhausted sob as his body spasms and collapses.

Jongin nearly cries in relief when he awakens, tangled in his sticky, sweaty sheets, to discover that it’s completely gone.

Wonshik and Jongin worked through the awkwardness, through the mortification months ago, and Jongin has seen him at his rawest, basest, neediest, most animal, too, soothed him through it, too. But shame is somehow still residual, and his stomach still twists with it when he see Wonshik at the breakfast table, earphones dangling around his neck, almost as if he’s ready to drown out the sound of Jongin’s heated moans. His face heats, too, and he shifts uncomfortably before offering a groggy greeting.

His throat is dry, and his voice is rough, raw from his desperate ringing cries. And his stomach twists again at the sound, but his heart warms at Wonshiks’ sleepy, milky smile.

Jongin aches. Waist, ass, back, legs, his entire body feeling bruised and battered, the phantom pangs of a heat addressed. He always, always hurts afterwards, wrung out and exhausted and sore, wonders always if a partner would make it more pleasant, wonders—not for the first time—if it’d feel this bad with Sehun. And then oh, he remembers.

His stomach twists again, drops, and he accepts the toast that Wonshik offers, golden brown with strawberry jam. He seats himself across from Wonshik, smarting only the slightest at the ache in his ass as he does, and Wonshik scoops more sugar into his cereal bowl.

“He’s—Sehun, I mean, he’s been asking about you, you know,” Wonshik starts after three spoonfuls of cereal. Jongin’s hand trembles, but he nods in acknowledgment, his thumb restless as it traces over the little embroidered fish on their tablecloth. He swallows down another bite of his toast.

“I don’t know why he suddenly cares,” and there's so much venom in his tone, he can hear it himself, bitterness, maybe twisted hurt, maybe love—no infatuation—turned inside out and wrong.

It doesn’t escape Wonshik who merely crinkles his nose, scoops another spoonful of cereal into his mouth. His spoon clinks against the bowl as he weighs his words. Wonshik always, always does.

“I mean—” Jongin sighs, takes another piece of toast—plain this time, sighs again. “What did he think happened every time I left for 3 days? I mean did he just not— _care_ until he could smell it on me or…”

Wonshik chews thoughtfully, swallows slow. And Jongin knows that means he’s working through it, thinking of the most tactful inoffensive way to defend Sehun, or convince Jongin that he was somehow not supposed to resent him for his behavior.

Preemptive irritation simmers low in his gut as Wonshik bites the inside of his cheek, crinkles his brows.

“I mean it was probably—” Wonshik starts. “Probably just kinda jarring to see it firsthand. To know for a fact that you were…going into heat. That you were going to be wanting an Alpha. And to have been an Alpha then.”

And Jongin hates the diplomacy of his words.

“And he's your best friend,” Wonshik adds after a beat. “He cares about you, and he loves you.” Wonshik shovels another spoonful of cereal into his mouth, weighing his words again as he tilts his head up to look Jongin in the eyes. His own are soft with concern. “I just think that…maybe you need to give him more credit.”

And Jongin doesn't remind Wonshik that he wasn't there, didn’t see the way Sehun’s eyes had gone dark and glassy, how his voice had gone deep, how there had been something so painfully, so horribly, so tantalizingly _Alpha_ in him, doesn’t explain to Wonshik how much Jongin hated himself, hated Sehun for taunting him with the reminder.

He nods dismissively instead, drops the subject entirely by asking about Wonshik’s date with Hongbin as he serves himself his own bowl of cereal.

It's a Thursday, and Jongin's missed his date with the dogs, his lunch date with Jongdae hyung, four classes, and a fight—at least a half-formed fight—with his best friend.

He remedies the former four with phone calls, an apologetic text message, wavers as he wonders his way through how he’ll deal with the last one.

But they don’t talk about it. Not when Sehun plops beside him in their lecture hall the next morning, not when he comes to drop off more clothes that night and Wonshik invites him inside for a cup of instant hot cocoa.

Only briefly as he’s about to leave, Sehun’s legs trembling in nervousness as he tugs on the strings of his hoodie. “About Monday,” he says, swallowing, ducking his head, soft and unsure in his movements. “I didn’t mean to—I guess I just never thought about it. But I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you, or to make you feel like you couldn’t handle it on your own.” And Jongin can _hear_ the Wonshik in him.

Something crawls up his throat and stays there, no matter how hard he swallows.

Sehun’s gaze when it intersects with Jongin’s is so, so soft. Maybe also scared. His eyebrows pinch with emotion.

“Are we okay?”

Jongin nods, and Sehun beams—his entire face crinkling—before he’s stumbling out his door.

It doesn't fester, doesn't ache—at least not more than usual, Jongin doesn’t let it.

And it’s bearable by that Saturday, the awkwardness almost completely dissipated, Sehun back to his usual habit of inviting himself into Jongin’s space and upsetting his fragile balance with bribes again, in the form of fried chicken this time, and Jongin back to his usual habit of accepting, indulging, inhaling Sehun in shuddery, aching increments.

They wind up tangled on the couch again, watch MythBusters this time.

Saturdays aren't his—aren’t supposed to be his, but Sehun's still his best friend. And it’s better to mend it, to fall back into a slightly altered pattern, now that they’re more sure of where they stand, Jongin more sure of the fact that he fucking _can't_ let this happen again.

But even then, desire thrums through his body, as he’s cradled so painfully tight.

Sehun is as big, as broad as Aphas are supposed to be, but Jongin isn’t as small, as delicate as Omegas are supposed to be, feels small though—but pathetically so—in Sehun’s arms.

Sehun plays absently with the skin peeking out from the hem of Jongin's shirt, the pads of his fingers exquisitely soft and achingly aimless in their slow, slow exploration, one hip to the other and back over and over again. And Jongin works hard to regulate his breathing.

On screen, Adam and Jaime are testing the reliability of breathalyzer tests, and Sehun, riveted and pressed so close, laughs along to some joke they make. And Jongin should be watching, too, probably laughing, too but he is too painfully overcome, hazy with the desire for more, melting into this touch that doesn’t mean what he needs it to, but that centers him and warms him and undoes him.

And so painfully unaware of Jongin's inner turmoil, Sehun drags his socked foot over Jongin’s bare ankle, and Jongin can feel the rise and fall of Sehun’s every inhale, the wet warmth of his breath against Jongin’s temple as he murmurs lazily about how he'd thought for _sure_ that last trick would work.

And Jongin’s skin is too busy prickling with half-formed need, his heart to busy racing and aching with damning longing for him to respond in more than shuddery hums.

Sehun offers to treat for bibimbap, and things are back to normal—awful and normal.

Sehun leaves when Wonshik, smelling like pizza grease and looking dead to the world, stumbles back to their apartment. It's the last time he'll pick up a double shift, he swears, even as he brandishes a complimentary pepperoni and bell pepper.

Jongin texts him to ask him to come over on Sunday again, and Jongin is worse, probably at compartmentalizing than he thought he was.

“You smell good,” Sehun murmurs absently, nosing softly along his scalp. His breath blows hot and wet, and Jongin’s skin prickles with goosebumps. His nerve endings tense with the desire for more even as he forces his body laxer into the awful, perfect, perfect touch. He tilts his head back so Sehun can smell more, takes greedy lungfuls so he can drown in Sehun’s scent, too. He tries not to think of how many Omegas Sehun has helped and whether they’ve been beautiful and soft and small and perfect, perfect like Sehun deserves.

Sehun shifts—absent—mouth grazing Jongin’s throat, and Jongin wonders if he can taste it, the desperation of his racing need, trace it with the soft, perfect, painful plushness of his parted lips. Jongin swallows a moan, quells a shudder, wonders if Sehun can feel that, too, understand it for what it is, for what it means—to Jongin. Sehun’s hand wander briefly higher, and Jongin tenses his body, but can’t help but press needily into it with the most ruined sound of damning desperation, can’t help but clap his hand over Sehun’s to hold him there. Perfect there.

Sehun stiffens, and Jongin is _mortified_.

“Jongin” he says and Jongin wonders if he can smell it now, hear it now, finally understand it now, the utter despair of his want, whether it’s as sticky sweet and lost and wanton and fragile as he feels, wonders, wonders, wonders if Sehun can bear it.

Clutched like that, cradled like that, he can’t move, doesn’t want to move, terrified as he is. His fingers spasm around the bony jut of Sehun’s wrist as he breathes consciously through the shaky desire to cry.

“Jongin,” Sehun repeats.

“Sehun,” he says, and Sehun exhales shakily.

“You smell good—” Sehun whispers, his voice small, shaky. “Smell like—like me. When are you gonna find a real Alpha, so you won’t have to smell like me?”

Jongin swallows hard. “Sehun,” he repeats.

“Have you even been looking?” His hands tighten in anger or possession or derision, ugly and entitled and _wrong_. His touch burns. “Do you even _want_ a mate, Jongin?”

Anger and indignation burn through him, too, stiffen his limbs. He tries to twist, to answer, but Sehun’s hands only tighten, arresting him there. And Jongin can feel the drum of his quickened pulse, the shift of sinew and muscle as Sehun holds him still.

“Sehun,” he repeats, and Sehun finally slackens his hold enough. Jongin stumbles onto the carpeted floor, scrambles back up.

Sehun’s eyes are dark, his brows furrowed, his entire body taut with tension.

“You never—” he exhales loudly. “You always borrow my clothes. And you always smell like me—like _mine_ , but you aren’t. That’s why you have to go your heats alone. You always smell like me.”

Jongin’s heart lurches. “Find someone to be yours, then,” he says. “If that’s what you want, find someone to be yours.” He swallows past the painful lump in his throat. “Because you aren’t looking either,” he accuses. “And you shouldn’t use me as an excuse.”

Jongin would know. Would bleed. Would wallow in the cliched despair of unrequited love, but maybe finally fucking _heal_

“Is that—is that what you want?” And Sehun’s voice sounds too fucking thick with emotion, but his eyes are still so guarded. And Jongin can’t—can’t not if it won’t mean the same thing. He loves himself too fucking much to hurt himself like this.

“Does it matter? What I want?” Jongin manages after an awful, painful pause, tearing his eyes away, squeezing his fingers into his own denimed thighs, staring at them instead. It hurts to swallow, hurts even more to open his mouth. The words are bitter and sharp and awful and cutting on his own tongue. “It shouldn’t be your concern what I want. Not when it comes to this, Sehun.”

It’s you, he wants to scream. It’s you. Only you.

They’re at a precipice, maybe a crossroads, separated by a chasm of unspoken words, half-formed feelings, silent, shameful desires, and _fear_ , tearing them further and further away, and Sehun’s gaze is searing, a heavy, heavy weight on his skin.

“But is that what you want?” Sehun repeats. “Want me to find someone else? Is that—You don’t?”

“I _can’t_ ,” Jongin whispers, and he jerks at the brush of Sehun’s warm palm on his skin. Jongin’s breath is painfully tight in his chest, and Sehun’s eyes are searching and full and dark, his lips pursed, a nervous tell. Because Sehun is also fucking terrified. Maybe even for the same reason.

Jongin gasps, maybe even sobs, his eyelashes fluttering rapidly as he blinks past the awful, awful lump in his throat. Sehun’s thumb drags over his mouth, lingering there as he watches him.

Kneeling there, in front of Sehun’s spread legs, Jongin’s trembling with the tiniest flicker of hope, painful and fragile and ugly and probably misplaced.

I can’t,” he repeats as Sehun’s other hand lands on his shoulder, squeezing there. “Please, Sehun.”

"Please, just—Should I be?” His fingers spasm, start to pull away, and Jongin chases them, bumbling forward, tense, tense, tense, terrified.

“No,” Jongin says, and Sehun is bumbling forward, too, tense, tense, tense, probably terrified, too.

Jongin, choking on his held breath, balanced there on that painful, painful edge, is unsure of who breaks first, but they’re tangled on the couch once more.

The angle is awkward, the air charged, and their lips collide, crash, crack, before Sehun is kneading the back of Jongin’s neck, tilting just right. And fuck, it’s achingly soft, the softest he’s ever had, chaste in the way of first dates and naive exploration and fragile, young love, but it's heavy with meaning, brimming with an affection that makes Jongin's chest constrict. Sehun releases a sound into his mouth, and Jongin doesn’t know whether it’s a sob or a moan, doesn’t know whether he sobs or moans when Sehun breathes his name into the seam of his lips.

Sehun coaxes his mouth open, soft, tender, wet, and he makes that sound again, sobs or moans as he flicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth.

“I can’t get over your smell, “ Sehun groans, pressing his nose into the crook of Jongin's throat, and just fucking _inhaling_. Jongin shudders, fingers clumsy as they tangle in his hair to hold him there. Sehun’s kisses are wet and hot and dragging. ”Mine,“ he murmurs. ”Mine, mine, mine.“

“Kiss me again,” Jongin urges into Sehun’s neck, tugging just to make him groan again, all rich and dark and hot. "Kiss me until it hurts."

Tilting up again, Sehun does just that, deepens it, dirties it until it's hard to breathe, hard to think, hard to do anything but melt into the couch and kiss back, shivering at every slick, slick glide of his soft, soft lips, every wicked swirl of his tongue. Jongin gropes forward to squeeze, shuddering as he feels Sehun’s broad, broad shoulders curling forward, towards him, caging him in.

It makes him feel loved and protected, makes him feel _wanted_ and worthy, dizzy on the thick, thick warmth of Sehun’s heady cologne, heavier scent. And fuck, it’s so much _better_ , when he can taste the heavy, dizzy promise of Sehun’s want—this present, ephemeral want—on his tongue, feel it cascade down his throat to become a part of him.

Jongin’s fingers fumble on Sehun’s shoulder, and Sehun squeezes to hold them there, warm and soothing, shaking, too, as Jongin melts into his mouth.

Fuck, he just _wants_ —the taste of him stuck to the roof of his mouth, on the back of his tongue, the inside of his cheek. God, he wants Sehun inside him and all around him.

It’s love, he thinks dizzily, baring his throat as Sehun paints kisses along his skin. This is love. And Sehun—Sehun might, might, _might_ , too.

“I care,” he whispers into Sehun’s throat. “I really fucking care. Please don’t—don’t—”

Sehun tugs Jongin’s bottom lip between his teeth, hauls him closer, and Jongin breaks off into the shakiest moan, melting into him immediately. “I won't,” he promises in a heated rush. “I won't.”

And pressed this close, tasting every shuddery exhale, Jongin realizes that Sehun smells like him, too. Sweet and sticky and hot. Jongin presses further forward, intent on tasting more as he mouths softly at Sehun’s throat, his lips and tongue and teeth dragging in a lazy, helplessly tender caress.

Sehun’s hands are still around his shoulders, painfully tight now, pinning him, but Jongin doesn’t want him to stop, needs him to keep touching him, staining him, marking him, ruining him in this way.

Jongin wants to be so wholly his that nobody else could want him. That nobody would ever dream of taking Sehun either, not the way that Sehun is taking him, not the way that Jongin is taking him either.

Sehun’s trembling fingers map across his skin, over Jongin’s shoulders, skittering along his hitching chest, inhaling Jongin deep deep all the while, and his moan rumbles through Jongin’s entire body. And Jongin fucking _aches_ with want.

Sehun’s fingers fan apart, wander beneath cotton, exquisitely warm, heartbreakingly tender and exploratory. They skim his belly, the ripple of his ribs, the pucker of his nipples. 

Burning, burning, burning, Jongin twists to press even closer, touching, too, gripping his shoulders, his back, gasping through every searing touch. Sehun’s hands close over his ass, tug him closer, and they tangle even more. Jongin rocks into Sehun’s thigh, nips needily at his jaw, clutches desperately at the straining muscles of his back, and it’s embarrassing how wet and hot and hard he feels. But Jongin arches his spine, rolls into the shy, shy exploratory fingers at the swell of his ass, shuddering when Sehun _growls_ into his jaw.

Lower, Jongin wants to urge. Lower and deeper. Fuck, _touch_ me.

Sehun—mercifully—seems to understand, squeezing in a way that has Jongin’s body trembling. He lurches forward, crowding into Sehun, but quaking so heavily that Sehun almost falls off the couch. Jongin buries his face into his throat as he pants his name.

“Hey” Sehun groans, pulling back, and Jongin is fumbling forward to close the distance again. “Is this—are you—are we okay?"

Jongin fumbles out a nod, kissing along the column of Sehun’s throat again, whimpering in encouragement. A reedy, reedy _more_.

Sehun’s fingers stumble beneath fabric of Jongin’s jeans, skipping over the cotton of his boxers. Lower, lower, lower, resting just between his cheeks. Sehun tenses, groans.

"Sehun?” Jongin manages, and Sehun nods, his eyes heavy-lidded and so achingly hot on his face. Jongin watches him swallow as he grazes again, fingers tiptoeing over the delicate skin, dampening as he drags the fabric back and forth.

Jongin’s body burns with the desire for more.

“I want you,” Jongin clarifies—unnecessarily. “I want you so bad.”

Sehun presses down harder, curling, and the rough drag of damp cotton, the impossibly hot way that Sehun is watching him as he touches him again and again, it has Jongin shuddering into motion, hooking his elbow around Sehun’s shoulders to drag him even closer, close enough to kiss, close enough to touch, close enough to drown in.

Sehun’s fingers press again, and Jongin grinds back, then forward, fingernails scraping over Sehun’s scalp to right himself, overcome with tremors as he drags against the outline of Sehun’s hard cock. There’s a knot under there, Jongin thinks, and he gasps, rocks again, harder, more deliberate, shuddering again at the heft and heat of it, even through the layers of fabric. Sehun gasps into his throat in response, squeezes his hips to hold them still. He pulls back—too far, too far to kiss, to touch, to drown in. And his pupils are blown, his face flushed, lips bruised from kisses, and Jongin has _never_ wanted anyone more.

“I don’t—We shouldn’t—I don’t want to—,” Sehun swallows, shudders—for him, because of him. “Don’t look,” he says. “Please don’t look.”

And Jongin doesn’t, feels instead with his fingers, memorizing the heat, the width, the weight, the way Sehun’s heavy cock seems to flare at the base, large and pulsing and hot. His _knot_ , and fuck, Jongin wants to fuck himself ragged on that knot.

Sehun trembles as he pants into his throat, kissing, then licking, then biting as he moans through Jongin’s clumsy exploration, continues with his own, sliding beneath Jongin’s boxers, teasing him with the barest, most fleeting caresses.

“I’ve thought about this,” Jongin confesses, pants, moans, shivers, dancing his fingers along the underside of Sehun’s cock, fanning apart as he memorizes the heat and the weight and the size of it. “Thought about you fucking me with this."

“Me, too.” Sehun hisses, punching his hips into the heel of Jongin’s palm. Once, twice, thrice. “You fucking me, too.” And the fingers of his other hand stumble forward, grazing in an appraising caress that has Jongin whimpering, punching forward to grind into the touch, too. His body burns with the drunken need for more.

“Want to. Want to—want to,” Jongin breathes. “Want you to _fuck_ me. Want you to bite me. Claim me.”

Sehun’s growl rumbles against his throat, a heated, wet thing, and Jongin trembles at the low, feral _want_ in it, trembles harder as Sehun's teeth graze in the most fragile, most beautiful promise. 

Want you pinning me with your knot and just taking me.” Sehun’s cock pulses in his hold, hot and heavy against his palm, and he swallows past the whimper crawling up his throat. “ _Wanting_ me.”

“I want you,” Sehun rasps, underscoring the statement with another slow, dirty, dirty grind, squeezing him tighter, too, so tight Jongin’s entire body fucking aches, throbs like a bruise. And Jongin strokes him again, digging the heel of his palm, and _fuck_ , Sehun is so big and heavy, his knot already _swelling_. Sehun moans, and a breathy gasp lodges in Jongin’s throat. Sehun’s fingernails sting as they drag over Jongin’s rim, less teasing this time, but more clumsy, and his knot—his wonderful, wonderful knot—pulses heavily against his hand.

And _fuck_ —

“Yes,” he breathes, squeezing around the knot, panting as Sehun tightens his hold, too, mouths at the trembling tendons of his neck. “ _Alpha_.”

“Want you,” Sehun continues, shifting, pressing them together, and fuck fuck _fuck_.

_Yes, yes._

Jongin grinds forward again, much more deliberate, shivering through the dragging friction, through the heady waft of Sehun’s desire, his scent. Sehun’s moan is rough and slow and rich and heady, laced with arousal, an Alpha’s possession, and Jongin shivers into the kiss, shivers with fear or arousal or desperation or the painful thrum of love, love love. Fuck, he just might be in love, love, love. 

Overcome, Jongin lurches forward to kiss him, whimpers into it at the hesitant breach of Sehun’s finger, the exquisite rock of his hips, the trembling warmth of his kiss, and his knot—his wonderful, wonderful knot pressing against him just right. Jongin scrambles to match his pace, tugs and kisses and moans and hisses and pants and needs and needs and needs and takes and takes and takes. Sehun tugs and kisses and moans and hisses and pants and needs needs needs, too, takes, takes, takes, too, bruising him with caresses, with rasped half-confessions and tremulous half-whimpers of Jongin’s name and _mine_ and _yes_ and _please_. 

And Jongin shatters just like that, on his beat up old couch, with Netflix playing in the background. He quivers through orgasm, cradled, clamoring, clinging tight to the anchor of Sehun’s warm, solid, Alpha Alpha _Alpha_ of a body as he shoots hot and wet into his own boxers. 

Sehun follows soon after, mouthing sloppily at the seam of Jongin’s mouth as he moans brokenly through his climax. And he comes and comes and comes, weak with it as his hips jerk through the aftershocks, shuddering through every long, long pulse.

Jongin shudders, too, trembles past the shivery exhale of Sehun’s breathing near his forehead, hot and tense and labored and frayed as Jongin feels. Sehun is feeling maybe what he feels.

“Jongin,” Sehun murmurs, soft and sweet, as soft and sweet at the shaking fingers he threads through Jongin’s hair. Soft and sweet as the weight of Sehun’s eyes on his own. They’re fragile and so achingly tender, and Jongin swallows as he meets his gaze. He bumbles forward, their foreheads bumping, and Sehun laughs shakily. It’s still rough around the edges, but thick—maybe—with contentment, and Jongin kisses him again because he wants to and because he can. Sehun smiles into it as he threads his fingers through his hair, cradles the back of his neck, kissing him again but slower, softer, sweeter.

And loved, protected, cradled and cared for and cherished, Jongin can’t even tell where he ends and Sehun begins.

**Author's Note:**

> [title](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SDugIEoFU9M)


End file.
